Photo: Courtesy of John O’Connor We were sitting in a four-season sunporch in a quiet residential neighborhood of Kalamazoo, where I grew up, when the drugs kicked in. My 78-year-old father, wobbling to his feet, fidgeted for a tub of Mentos in his fleece pocket and, when the zipper failed to yield, abandoned the candy and reached for his keys, as if he had designs on leaving. An hour earlier, he’d wolfed down seven grams of psilocybin mushrooms, dipping them one by one in a puddle of honey and